AND FLOWERS OF POETRY. 85 
A page of melody most rich and rare; 
And every leaf I turned, 
With a new lustre burned, 
The light of love and thought, undimmed by care. 
And thus each day I pore 
My lesson o’er and o’er, 
My lesson from that book, with new delight, 
That cannot tire or change, 
That feels no Avish to range, 
For oh! where else hath earth a gift so bright? 
’T is not its binding fair, 
Though it show beauty rare, 
. ’T is not its cover rich, Avinneth me so; 
Vainly the blush and smile 
Meet on thy cheek the while, 
Did not the light within equally glow? 
Bright eyes will lose their ray, 
Roses Avill fade aAvay; 
But the fair spirit for death is too pure; 
And like its cause in thee, 
Holy and strong and free, 
While thy soul lives, my passion will endure. 
f. s. o. 
